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Ch. 3: I Have a New Father Now
Back to Arheled Labor Day dawned, cooler but still humid. Brooke was roused early by a thump from downstairs. Hurrying to the “in-law apartment” in the basement, she was in time to help her brother Ben out of a tool shelf he’d fallen into. He seemed barely able to keep his feet. “Ben, where have you been?” Brooke exclaimed as she managed to hoist him upright. “We were afraid you got killed in the Park Massacre.” “You mean the Dragon Wagon.” he mumbled, putting his arm over her shoulder and leaning heavily on her. He looked awful, both bloated and haggard, but his eyes weren’t bloodshot and there was no alcohol on his breath. “No, I wasn’t killed.” He gave her a queer, almost hungry look from under lowered lids. “Did you have an accident? Were you at the hospital?” Brooke asked anxiously. He seemed hardly able to walk. “Well, I was…detained for a while. Got into trouble. Rather not talk about it.” Brooke helped him lie down on his bed. “You’d better get some sleep.” she said severely. “I’ll fix you a light breakfast. Toast and cereal will do. Are you sick at all?” “Just tired, Little Mommy.” he said with an odd smile. Brooke felt his eyes on her as she left the room, and shivered. Something was wrong with him, all right. He wasn’t usually this creepy. “So, what are we doing for the great Labor Day? Are we going to labor?” said Brooke brightly when her parents got up. Mr. Pond laughed. Mrs. Pond said gently, “I thought we could do something together, '' as a ''family.” Mr. Pond ruffled his long white hair guiltily. “I was thinking I could just visit the bar while you women hung out.” “Hey, we have entertaining conversations!” Brooke said mock-indignantly. “How about we have a cookout at the Soldier’s Tower? It’s open 2-4.” “A cookout?” Ben said, pulling himself slowly up the stairs. “Sounds good. I’m hungry, and she’s determined to starve me on toast and cereal.” “Ben?! For heaven’s sakes, where the heck have you been?! We’ve been worried! You shouldn’t do that to us!” Mrs. Pond was jabbering a mile a minute. Mr. Pond lifted his hand and said, “Good to see you’re back.” “Yeah, I got in some trouble, but I’m all right now. My buddy dropped me off this morning. I stagger in here and what does Brooke fix me but bird food. I’m hungry!” “Well, I was afraid you might be nauseous!” They got the supplies ready. Mr. Pond had to go out and buy chips, soda, cookies and such like things. By 1:30 they had everything loaded up. Brooke rode down with Ben, which meant they got there long before their parents. “We’re early.” she complained, seeing that the red-shirted men hadn’t even shown up yet. “I wanted to show you which way the soldier faces.” “He faces Pratt Hill, and the tower that was but no longer is.” Benn said with that odd smile. Brooke turned around to face him. They were on the stepped walk leading up to the tower door, and the grey wind lifted her yellow hair. “How do you know that? I don’t remember telling you.” Ben stepped toward her. The smile was wider, positively creepy. Brooke realized with a sudden horrid chill that they were completely alone. She began to back away. “You didn’t. But somebody told you things, didn’t they? I’ve been told things too.” “Stay back,” said Brooke in a sharp tight voice. “Stay away from me!” Her brother moved like lightning, arms wrapping around her, holding her tight. The world wavered, and when it cleared they were no longer on Camp Hill, but on Case Mt, high above any habitation. “I know all about you, my so-dear sister.” he whispered. “We are not near any lakes. The Daslenga is too far for your call to reach. You’re only a woman. And a really, really hot woman, at that.” Greenish-blue light sparked for an instant far down in Brooke’s eyes. Water condensed out of the air in a flash, building up between them, forcing them apart like a solid wedge. Groundwater erupted from the soil for thousands of feet around, leaving it dry and baked and split as in a drought, and trees ripped apart, and sap shot out of them. Towers of toppling brown rose around her. “You aren’t Ben.” she said. Her brother’s mouth widened awfully. “There you’re wrong.” he said. “We share the same mother, but not the same father. I have a new father now….” Realisation flashed in Brooke’s eyes, even as like magic her brother melted and swelled, until a sinuous red-purple dragon reared before her. “You need to cool down, bro.” said Brooke. Water cannonaded like hammer-blows upon him, and surrounded him, wriggling down into his throat and seeking out his inner fires. But nothing was happening. The dragon was drinking up all the water she was wielding. Brooke made it hard and cutting, trying to rend his tissues; but still nothing was happening. Could he be invulnerable, as well? There was a concussion as her water was wrenched from her control, knocking her sprawling on the leaves. And the Ben-dragon stood unharmed. “Didn’t expect that, darling-sister?” he drawled. “How stupid of you to assume all dragons are quenchable.” He opened his great mouth. “But if you remember your Bible, the only dragon it describes had other powers than fire!” Water blasted from his mouth. Black, heavy with decay and poison, the miasma of it was almost worse than the pollution of its’ touch. Brooke was borne back. Ben ceased his torrent in order to draw breath. His eyes bulged. Brooke stood before him, unwetted, the black water whirling in her hands like solid scythe-blades. She sent it upon him, chopping and drilling, unhindered by the black floods he poured from his mouth. Something smashed her, seized her, crushed her. Stars burst in her eyes as her head was bashed against a tree. Unseen hands smashed her down, again and again. Ben, slowly changing back to human form, made a sign and the beating ceased. “We have a power that you do not, streamgirl.” he said in her ear as he lifted her up. “Black magic. Not even the Road can protect you from your own brother.” Numb with horror and despair, Brooke could not make a sound. She heard her brother panting. A belt buckle clattered as it was loosed. She felt the screams rising like vomit in her throat. She opened her mouth. The world whirled and came down on her. Leaves were under her, slimed and black with the noxious flood. She coughed from the impact, and the movement made her head split. Sitting up and cradling her various injuries, Brooke blinked. Between her and Ben a huge figure with wild black hair had arisen from the ground. A ragged mantle whipped about him. The dragon was coiling backwards, fear in its’ eyes. “She is underneath the Road.” snarled the Wild Man of Winsted. The dragon vanished—and slowly came back into view, remorselessly hauled back by the power of the Wild Man. “Oh, no you don’t.” he growled. “I hear your father can raise the dead….I will compel him to do so if he wants to fetch you home.” The dragon exploded with a hideous plop, and the slime of its’ corpse sank into the ground, and the slime on the leaves evaporated, until there was no trace of the fight. Nor of Ben. Then Wild was bending over her, and his great hairy hands passed lightly over her bruised body, and all the pain left. “You are all right?” he said gruffly, and yet with a peculiar gentleness. Looking up she saw with amazement a look in his eyes that had never been there before: compassion. “He did not consummate?” “He never had time.” she stammered. “Th-thank you.” Wild bowed his head. “I’m glad I was in time.” “But I didn’t call you.” “Your heart called, and my heart answered; and I came.” “What do I owe you Wild?” said Brooke mournfully. “I cannot pay you.” “You owe me nothing.” he said almost savagely. “I came without bargain. I will ask no price of you, Brooke. Only—only your smile,” his voice fell to an embarrassed mutter, “and your good will.” Brooke looked up at him, her whole face aglow with intense wonder. “You have both.” she said softly, “and my gratitude as well.” His smile was almost bashful. “It is strange,” he murmered. “I, who have walked and wooed for a hundred years of men, have never received such joy of my wooing as I know now. Why does one smile from her cause more joy within me than ten hundred wooings? What is it?....Why is it?...” A strange dizzying lightness swirled within Brooke, as if she stood on the edge of a cliff. “I think it’s called love.” she said. The Wild Man’s face twisted. “The Wild Man in love,” he laughed bitterly, “The Wild Man gets married, bringing up lots of little wild children! Will they, perhaps, be half mountain, he wonders? And who teaches them school?” His expression grew grim, bitter and sorrowful like a thousand years of death. “I will leave, before I forget and think for one moment of insanity that I am human.” He bent down towards Brooke. “But if ever you have need, I will hear; and I will come, nor will I demand a bargain of you.” “You’re very kind, Wild,” said Brooke shyly, and getting up she slowly slipped both arms around him. “Thank you.” She gave him a swift little kiss. He looked at her, a wild grief and joy in his fey uncanny eyes, before earth flowed through her arms and sank into the ground; and he was gone. The trees above the Beardsley Library were turning a crumpled brown, but the air was warm and even hot. After riding up from Burrville, Ronnie Wendy was sweating. He went downstairs, navigating the rabbit warren with the ease of long familiarity, and washed up in the bathroom. Nerissa, the pretty librarian, looked up and smiled when she saw him. She had her hair down today, hanging in honey ringlets about her ears, and her buxom bust was emphasized by a pale blue ruffled dress with a bodice. “Hello.” she said. “Do you want a computer?” “One of these days I’m going to surprise you by walking in and saying I don’t want a computer.” he drawled. She smiled secretly. “Numbers 2 and 3 are open.” “Guess what. Dragons were sighted in Burr Pond!” he said off-the-wall. Nerissa’s eyes got large, blank and dumbfounded. “Oh my.” she said. “I was joking. What with what happened at the carnival, it’s probably not so funny. But I love making you say that.” Nerissa smiled again. “I’ll put you down for Number 2.” “Thank you very much!” “You’re welcome very much.” It was another of her peculiarities. Ronnie got on the computer and checked his email. There was a letter from Brooke, rather incoherent and full of emotion, about her traumatic experience on Labor Day several days ago and the peculiar behavior of Wild. Another letter, from Lara, very short and saying that she had dreamed again about Sophia but couldn’t remember anything except that she had been baking pies out of starlight—“It was a bit nonsensical.” He sent replies to both, a sympathetic one to Brooke and a careful one to Lara, who even though she was twelve years his junior still filled him with an odd wary respect, saying that it might seem like nonsense, just like Arheled’s rhymes, and yet have some meaning. Then he left. “Bye, Nerissa.” he said as he passed the desk. “Bye. Have a good weekend.” But for some reason she didn’t smile. “Who is the Green Lady?” Bell wanted to know. Forest, who was trying to concentrate on his horrible math work so he could get it over with, groaned and didn’t answer. The oak leaves overhead rustled in the wind. “You’re not listening to me.” “Well, we’re only out here at all because we told Dad we couldn’t concentrate inside.” he retorted. “And we’re supposed to be doing schoolwork.” “Well, we need a break.” “Shut up and come back later.” “Hmph.” Bell sniffed, and buried her nose in her own math book. Two minutes went by. Then Bell started groaning and muttering about math torture—she vastly enjoyed not having to worry about disturbing the class—until Forest got up and sat on the dock. “How’s the schoolwork coming?” said Hunter Light, coming over from where he’d been loading things into his car. “I’ll quiz you before I take off, but I have to be getting back to the College; my lunch break is over. I’ll expect you to actually have some work done by the time your mother comes home. Can I trust you?” “We’ll work every now and then.” Bell smiled sweetly. “Uh-huh. Well, if you don’t make some progress, young lady, I just might stick you back in school again!” “Hey, we’re at least four chapters ahead of where we usually are in school.” He took their books and flipped through the chapters they’d been studying, questioning them at random. It was the same method, he assured them, by which teachers drew up tests, but Bell accused him of deliberate malice in his choice of questions. Despite this they answered well enough to satisfy him, although he still ordered them to re-study this, that and the other problem they’d messed up on. “You know we’re going to forget this the moment we’re done with the book.” Forest said gloomily. “Well, enough of it might remain to be of help in later years, I know it did with me.” “Yeah, you’re a natural math freak.” said Bell. “Hey, watch your manners, little lady!” He drove off, and Bell and Forest looked at each other, grinned ferociously, slammed their books shut and raced inside to get their suits. Forest got cold pretty quick, but Bell stayed in so long he had already cooked some scrambled eggs by the time she came inside. Her teeth were clacking loudly. Forest shoved a mug of hot tea toward her. “Thanks.” she said when her jaws finally shut up. “How’d you know I’d need that?” “It’s September, dummy.” he retorted. “Everybody but you knows that autumn water is cold.” “Well, it’s not officially autumn until the Equinox, double dummy.” she shot right back. “And in case you didn’t notice, the thermometer reads 80.” “Dummy to the umpteenth power.” Forest had had to study the powers of 100. “I love doing schoolwork with you.” sighed Bell. “Homeschooling is so much fun.” “Not when Dad’s around.” “He’s a teacher. He knows how to teach.” “He’s a '' professor''. He’s only supposed to profess.” “You can’t profess schoolwork.” Bell protested. “You profess things like faith or beliefs.” “I wonder why they ever call them that.” mused Forest. “Maybe because they…” Professed opinions about their subjects? '' “They?” With a groan Forest repeated what he’d thought. “You’re getting there.” sighed Bell. “I’m going to teach you how to open up like a normal person before winter comes.” ''No you won’t, ''thought Forest. She deduced his thought from the prim expression he had, and rolled her eyes. Forest looked at the clock and heaved a sigh. “We should get back to drudgery in five minutes.” he observed dolefully. “Lunch shouldn’t be more than an hour.” “Yeah, so let’s just relax and talk about things that ''really matter—like this Green Lady. I thought you guys freed her; so what was Arheled saying there are two?” “I don’t remember him saying that.” “Well, somebody said it. Are there?” “I looked it up,” said Forest haltingly. “There were two. There was the Green Lady of Winchester, green lights and mist drifting around the grave of Mary Crocker, and she’s the one we freed, the imprisoned ghost of the Star. Then there’s the other one.” “That one’s in Burlington, right?” “Yeah.” said Forest. “That one had a creepy story around it. The Seventh Day Adventists lived there a couple hundred years ago—that was their cemetery—and they seem to have been persecuted by the Baptists around them. At least, they probably were Baptist—`most everybody was in these parts back them—but I hope not. The Adventists had the worst luck. Accidents happened with such frequency—trees falling on them, equipment breaking, so on—that foul play was suspected. Even preternatural foul play. After a while they had so many die the others gradually moved out.” “Makes you ashamed of your church.” “Well, just because we have bad men in our past doesn’t make our doctrines false. That’s what the Catholics say about the priest scandals.” “Yeah, but go on. Where’s the Green Lady come into this?” “Her name was Elisabeth Palmiter. She and her husband lived next to the cemetery, in a little house he had made for her. “Winter came. Goodman Palmiter went to town one day for supplies, and a heavy snowstorm struck. Night drew in, and snow fell heavier, and he still had not returned. So Elisabeth, fearful that he had lost himself, took a lantern and headed into the woods to look for him. “Some ways back from the cemetery is a swamp. The ice must have given beneath her, or the snow hid the pools, but in she fell, and she could not get out, sinking slowly, filling the woods with her screams, but no one came. “At last a star grew in the lonely thick paleness of dark falling snow. A lantern, bobbing back and forth, making its’ way across the treacherous pools. A face became visible beneath it, and it was a face she knew. Her husband, Benjamin. “She cried out to him to help her, to save her, but he stood as one turned into stone, watching, unhelping, holding the lantern over her head as it slipped under the mud, and she breathed in mire, and the swamp took her.” Bell listened as if turned into stone herself. Her brother had changed, changed in so many ways from the boy she remembered. He gulped a little, blinked, and went on in a more ordinary voice. “There’s been stories of her ghost ever since. A quiet serene ghost, usually a transparent green mist of female shape with quiet smiling features. Or an unmoving light like a lantern. They say she haunted her husband to death. One pair of ghost hunters back in 2008 captured a photo of a curving green mist, even though they didn’t see anything. I’ve seen it; it needs some imagination to make it look like a woman, but it did hold together.” “Was that what really happened?” Bell said. “Well, there were two other versions.” Forest said, rumpling his hair. “One has her husband coming back the next day and finding her frozen to death, and the other has him search the swamp with neighbors until they found her dead. If she fell in the water on a subzero night, yes she would freeze pretty fast. I suppose no one will know.” The day after was Brooke’s birthday. She held a party at her house, inviting (of course) her fellow Children of the Road, though when they severally showed up they saw they were not the only ones. Cars lined the road for a hundred feet or so. From inside the strains of loud-ish music—so essential to a party—could be heard faintly. Ronnie got out of his truck a little wearily; he’d been sawing small trees for a customer all day, stopping for a swim on the way in order to clean up, so he was tired. Several car doors closed at the same time, and he was not at all surprised to see Forest and Bell, Lara and Travel all converging on the house. “Wow, what’d you do, Travel, teleport everyone here?” he said. “Uncanny timing.” “Hey, you know that only seems to happen in emergancies.” “I don’t know.” said Forest. “I think our powers might be growing. Mine are.” “The Road is drawing nearer.” nodded Ronnie. “I saw Murzim last light.” Lara put in. She looked wan, almost anxious, but her eyes gleamed with an odd blank brilliance Ronnie had only seen in flashes in her before. “And the Wolf Star.” “The Great Dog?” said Ronnie. “Wolf.” she said decidedly. “A wolf, pursuing the Herald. Opening his jaws to swallow Daslenga. I hate dogs.” “Seconded.” grinned Ronnie. “I don’t think Travel likes dogs….I’m sure Forest doesn’t…do any of us like dogs?” “If they’re cute and nice, I do.” said Bell. “I hate the big barky kind.” Ronnie swatted ferociously at about ten mosquitos that were trying sneak attacks from several directions. “Let’s get inside before these things make me a zombie.” “I know, I’ve been bitten all day.” sighed Travel, indicating her legs. Perfect rows of red spots ran up them. Bell whistled. “So that’s what those are.” she said. “I wondered.” “Of course they’re bug bites; what did you think they were?” “I thought they were decorative tattoos!” Ronnie interjected triumphantly. Both girls stared at him with their mouths open for a second before dissolving into stitches. Even Forest was snickering. “Wow, that’s a good one.” gasped Travel when she had to some extent recovered. “Okay, let’s go inside.” The music grew louder as the door opened, punk ‘80s rock, but all rock was alike and despised by Ronnie. He preferred actual music. Inside, Brooke had the air conditioner going, a relief after the hazy sticky air of outdoors. About ten or eleven young people were orbiting around, occasionally oscillating around the food table but mostly clustering in small groups here and there. Ronnie recognized some of them: a short-haired buxom girl with a brassy attitude and jeans and low-cut blouse who had to be Delilah, and another girl with a round pretty and lively face, dark hair and glasses, who he knew at once, and had never expected to see again. His eyes glowed under his brows as he glanced around. For an instant his brown pupils seemed to be tinged with red. None of the others were familiar. “Oh, you finally got here, guys!” greeted Brooke, hugging and shaking hands all round. “What’s wrong, Ronnie? You look like you’re declaring war.” It was not Ronnie who answered her, but Forest. Shorter than Ronnie, but only by an inch or so since his growth spurt, his eyes burned strangely in his pale face. “Why have you filled up your house with enemies, daughter of the streams?” he said. “I…beg your pardon?” stammered Brooke. “Why have you opened the doors of the house of your father to the foes of your face, Brook of the Rivers?” the small but somehow terrible voice of Forest pressed. “You’re sounding like Arheled.” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Forest. They’re my friends.” “No,” said Ronnie, looking slowly around, “not all of them. Were you so far gone, then, in misery that you did not remember who tortured you that night? When Wild made a bargain and put your house beneath the Road?” Realisation dawned slowly on Brooke’s face. “Deli.” she breathed. “She drank the Witch’s brew.” said Forest. “Not only her.” said Ronnie. “Make some excuse. Get her, and her, and her outside,” he pointed as he spoke, “but don’t get them suspicious. Let us deal with them.” Brooke gave them both a pained look. “Can’t I even enjoy a party with a few old friends?” she said softly. “Do you have to be Sons of the Road every minute of the day? With my brother dead, can’t I at least enjoy the day?” “Get them outside.” Ronnie repeated. “Or this house might be destroyed. Do you think they did not know that it was held against them until you let them in? I know her. That lively one. I saw her change, that day at the carnival. She is dragon.” The beating, ceaseless jabber of the rock music around her suddenly seemed threatening to Brooke, like the horrid merry laughter of a gang advancing on a victim. “It’s just that…I knew these girls from school.” Her voice had tears in it. “I thought I could back there…be normal again…I liked them, for Pete’s sake!” “St. Peter has to turn away a lot of folk he likes.” said Ronnie sadly. “Oh, shut up.” said Brooke wretchedly. “I wish I’d never invited you. You’re all becoming the same. I would hate you, but you can’t hate people you’re bound to. Go try to have some fun for once in your lives. I’ll take them outside.” “Don’t mind them,” Bell said in Brooke’s ear, taking her arm. “They’re boys. Boys are all ‘battle and death’, you know? We’ll both talk to them. Maybe the boys are wrong.” Travel and Lara hung around in a corner, nibbling on goodies. The people around mostly ignored them, except one or two of the boys, who struck up conversation but seemed very ill at actually maintaining one. As none of them knew Chesterton or anything else interesting, Lara decided they were a waste and went out on the porch to where Bell and Brooke were chatting with the girls that Ronnie had indicated. She knew better than to take Ronnie lightly, and watched them carefully without seeming to; but the girls certainly didn’t seem like witches. Or dragons, though Lara had only experienced two, and had no idea if Mrs. Lane was representative of all girl dragons. Travel had managed to find a few movies and books in common with the boys, and was even beginning to enjoy herself. Over in a corner she spied Ronnie, working on two full plates. Forest was nowhere to be seen. And the music played, and the laughter of the girls rang out from the standing groups, but the whole scene felt eerie, almost unreal, somehow. Lara leaned on the railing for a while, listening to the girls chattering down below. Somehow there was something about it, about them, that the longer she listened the stranger it felt. The words of the other girls were coarse and frank, and they exclaimed vulgar phrases with the same effortless ease as Lara would have used when saying “Oh gosh.” “OMG! You are so not f—ing with me, are you? There really was something! Holy f--! I can’t believe it!” “He wanted to see your ---s? Swear to f--?” Lara looked down at Bell and Brooke. Bell’s face looked a little tight. Brooke seemed to be almost desperately reaching, reaching for a time when she would have enjoyed this sort of sewer—oh, not talked it herself, of course, but groaned and laughed at the gross jokes and grosser references…and not finding it. “The boys are right.” Lara muttered. She almost caught herself saying they were f—ing right, and winced. It was bad enough at work. When relaxed, it had a way of really worming into you. There was a crash of breaking glass. She almost screamed as Ronnie and Travel hurtled over her head, glass flying around them; and then without even a warning shiver she was Cold, it was her and she was it, and glass froze and shattered to dusty snow, and her friends landed in a sudden snowbank. She turned around, unearthly light growing in her eyes; and the door had reappeared, and it was locked shut. And through it Cornello grinned. Now Brooke was yanking at the door, trying to open it; and from inside their enemy laughed. “This house is under the power of Chaos.” she heard him clearly say. “No,” she heard the voice of Forest, in an equally clear tone, though Lara could not see him; and from the way he was turning and peering, neither could Cornello. “I entered by her invitation. I remained when you expelled the Road. In me the Road has a foothold, and you cannot shut it out.” Brooke suddenly got the door open. Her flesh was oddly transparent, shimmering, wavering; water was building between her hands. They walked inside, slowly, deliberately, one on each side. “Indeed you are growing fell.” smiled Cornello. “Good. Your fall will be all the more bitter when it comes. Your sorrow will never begin to fade.” He chuckled as at some private joke. Behind them Travel mounted the stairs. In her eyes a blue flame was sputtering. She threw out one arm, her hand crooked. Cornello choked, sudden surprise on his beefy face. She closed her fist. There was a blue waver in the air around him, and around the three enemy girls outside, and abruptly they were sucked backward into it and were gone. “Well,” said Ronnie, clapping her on the shoulder, “that was a pretty quick use of your power.” “Yeah.” muttered Travel. Guys and girls were slowly slipping out the front and side, giving them scared and angry looks. Some of the girls looked ready for hysterics. “Sorry for your party.” Ronnie said awkwardly to Brooke. “Yeah, I wasn’t enjoying it anyway. Oh, shut the confounded h-- up!” as she savagely turned off the radio. Blessed silence fell on the room. “Expect a few cops any minute.” said Ronnie dryly. “I saw some girls going for their phones.” “Oh—f—g—ooh, I '' hate'' those foul-mouthed little bitches!” exploded Brooke. “What is that funny thing you always say—“ “It alternates between crumblesticks and snapplepops.” “Crumblesticksicles. My parents aren’t home, and no way am I going to pull it off with the cops.” Sirens sounded in the distance, lending urgency to the situation. “Travel!” barked Ronnie. “Can you take all of us—and our cars?” “Um…wow, I might.” said Travel. “Can you all, like, stand in a group?” They moved together. A blue light began to grow in Travel’s eyes. Then they became blank and hard, and the air around the others, and their cars, grew luminous blue, wavering as if by heat waves. Sirens grew louder, coming up the hill from Winsted. Abruptly the wavering blue imploded, and the howling police cars that screamed up to the house found a deserted building. Stars whirled around them. Cold and ancient voices now many ages silent sang from hidden places. Then suddenly they reappeared, tumbling in a heap in the grass of the field across from the Lane house. Their cars faced every which way, but they were upright. “Sorry.” she said. “I’m still learning.” “May I suggest more practice?” growled Ronnie as he got out from under Lara and rubbed his hip. “At least they’re right way up.” said Lara. “This has been such a stinking day.” muttered Brooke. “You’re welcome to a sleepover at my place.” said Travel. “Say, if I call a few friends, we might actually get in some party time after all.” “Good idea. Let me leave Dad a message.” Lara Midwinter stood out in her yard, at the crest of the hill in Riverton, enjoying the wonderful cold that was descending. The morning had been sticky as usual, but then around noon it poured, and as it did it got colder, as if the humid warmth was being scrubbed from the sky. Now as evening fell there was a definite bite in the air. Lilac shivered and pulled on her sweater. “Aren’t you cold, Lara?” she said. Lara smiled. “I’m beyond cold. I passed cold a long time ago. Cold has become wedded into my essence.” “You’ve been reading Chesterton again.” “Boethius, actually.” Lilac put her head in her hands. “I knew it was a mistake to get you that for your birthday.” “Hey, my birthday was eight months ago, and I only just got around to it.” She’d been born Dec. 22nd. “You sound like you’re on Prozac.” “That would explain why I’m so prosaic.” “Are you pro-Zack or pro-Saiah?” Lara pretended to consider. “That would depend on whether any of my friends were con-Zack.” “Or con-Vict.” said Lilac slyly. “I don’t even know anyone named Victor!” Lye went back inside, surrendering to the cold, but Lara stayed out. She wanted to soak in the cold, to glory in it, although her flesh was getting goose prickles. Stupid flesh. Why couldn’t she become the Cold at will? The next morning the thermometer read 40. Lara had to get up at 5 for her shift, and when she drove into Winsted the stars were so clear and bright in the new clean air she drove into the park and got out of her car and stood, gazing at them. No streetlights ruined the view. High in the west the Moon, nearly at the full, stared coldly down, one of the Planets gleaming next to her. Across from her the Herald strode up the sky, no longer on his back but tilting forward, his silver bow drawn, his bright knees buried in the river of dim stars. Daslenga flowed across the sky, until the eastern horizon swallowed him; and at his head, behind the Herald, two stars stood prominent, pointing at the Herlad’s knees: Sirius the Wolf’s Nose, and Murzim the Herald, sign of the true West, not aligning with the earth’s West until sunset, when both sun and Herald were together. Lingeringly Lara got back into her car and drove to McDonald’s, and got out, there to resume the boring drudgery of earning money. Travel woke up a whole hour early. She sleepily checked her alarm. Nope, the glow-in-the-dark hands said 5:00, not 6, and it was dark out anyway. The bite on her nose told her why she woke up: the room was cold. Really cold. Shivering, Travel pulled on a sweater over her pajamas and tucked in the thin covers. She should have listened to Grandmother and unpacked the winter quilt on Sept. 1st, whether it was hot out or not. It wasn’t much use. Half an hour later Travel got dressed, putting on two shirts and a hat and finally feeling warm, and took her time eating breakfast. It was a good thing her new school clothes were fall ones; during the hot weather of the first three weeks she’d had to keep wearing her summer ones. Idly she wondered if there was a frost out. A memory of far-off days floated into her mind, eating breakfast in a rush while Mom, tall and blond and stately, nagged her on being late. Tears stung her eyes and she thought hastily of something else. It was quite nippy when she emerged at quarter to 7, but there was only dew on the grass and no frost. She was startled to see Wayham Lane standing in the lawn, stock and still his eyes half-shut. He wore an old pair of corduroy pants and a big plaid jacket; a red plaid scarf was wrapped around his neck. Dew gleamed on his shoulders and in his long hair. “How long have you been o out?” she said. Wayham came alive with a jerk. “Oh, I guess since dark, maybe, when it was dark out still, I mean. I suppose I should go in.” He hugged himself and shivered. “Sometimes I forget I am now flesh, and think myself still tree, and the tree-stupor puts mind and body to sleep. Ooof!” He stretched. “Flesh does not like to stand in the cold overlong. Oh, you are off to school. Don’t let me keep you. I suppose the bus will come any minute.” “It comes at 7.” said Travel. She checked her watch. “Which gives me five whole minutes.” “Then you’d better run, little lass.” chuckled the ancient man. “Be a good girl at school now, okay?” “You sound like some crazy old doting uncle.” “Well, I am your ancestor.” replied Wayham. “Your many-times-great grandfather. How many greats would that be…? Hmm…..seven times seven, no…” She left him to his musings and raced down the driveway. All the maples were suddenly fading yellow in the woods and speckled red in the swamp, and leaves blew past upon a clear cold wind. It was remarkable how clear and fresh the air was now. The humid haze had been swept away s with giant brooms. Hills several miles off showed dark green instead of faint smoky blue. Travel breathed deeply and laughed. Another kid was waiting at the head of her driveway, she was surprised to see. He was a moody-looking sort of boy, about her age—but then of course he would be, if he was waiting for her bus—with dark handsome eyes and a lean craig-like face. Her heart beat faster. “Hey, you must be new.” she said. “Yeah, they changed my bus stop. Used to get picked up at my house, down the road there, but then they merged stops cause two so close together was stupid. So what’s your name?” “Oh, I’m Travel. Travel Lane.” “Nice. I’m Ben. Just moved here this summer.” The yellow bus came lumbering down Smith Hill from Winsted, stopping for them with a long-drawn scream of bad brakes. Why all school busses had loud brakes Travel could never understand, but there it was. She got on board, Ben behind her. Now that she was 17 she could drop out of Regional, she supposed, but Dad wanted her to finish school, despite the fact that she could learn in a moth of study whatever else they would teach her in a whole year. She sat down beside Jenna, who greeted her as usual with a sniff, and the bus got underway, to eventually make its’ way to Regional High School in Winsted. “Wayham!” Grandmother Lane’s sharp call made the ancient man start, for the second time that morning. He stirred himself, stalking stiffly across the lawn and onto the porch. Grandmother Lane shut the door behind him. “You said you would have a fire going when I got up!” she scolded. “Don’t tell me: you went out for sticks and fell asleep on your feet again. You’re going to catch cold. Here, drink some tea and come and have breakfast.” A fire was already dancing in the hearth, Wayham noticed. Sheepishly he sat down at the table and sipped the tea. “Twenty greats.” he said triumphantly. “I am Travel’s twenty-onest-great-grandfather.” “Is that what you were doing?” Grandmother Lane sounded amused. “Actually, Travel is twenty-second in descent from you.” “It seems strange to think about,” ruminated Wayham, shaking his head. “I saw the years pass like ghosts, and the people walking on the Riverton bridge, but still, to think that twenty generations have walked and died before me—queer, it feels. Very queer.” “Do you remember your father at all?” Grandmother Lane said curiously. “Your writings never mention him.” “Curious.” mused Wayham. “I must have had one, I suppose…but I can never remember him, only my mother, and she died when I was young, so who she was I do not know. I do remember one thing she said of him: He is the oldest man alive.” “As it is difficult to gather records of octogenarians in pre-settlement New England,” Grandmother Lane said dryly, “it seems that question can never be answered. Who raised you?” Wayham shrugged. “Wolves, perhaps.” he said. “I was a child when she died. I wasn’t welcome….I remember hard faces, calling me witchbabe…the fire….the shaman dancing around me….and then a hawk, bearing me away.” “Wayfinder?” “It may be.” Wayham nodded. “I wandered in the wild. Birds were friendly, for some reason; they came to me, and one was always watching me, a hawk like none that walk today. It was the size of an eagle. It had very powerful eyes. Laughing eyes. It made me laugh to look at him. He always brought me food. One time wolves came. The hawk moved like winged lightning. Next thing I knew there were eight dead wolves, and the hawk was skinning one with it’s talons. Those pelts became my wardrobe. “I built shelters in the woods. I would go off to snare or rig traps, and when I returned something had transformed the rude pile of sticks into a secure place, always snug and warm, and no wild creature could breach it. I talked to the hawk. It would listen, occasionally crying in its’ strange harsh voice. Sometimes it soared off to catch something. I loved that hawk. But it would never come near enough to touch. Maybe it feared me. Or maybe it pitied me, and would not allow me to feel what it truly was….” He fell silent, musing, and ate in silence. Grandmother Lane left him alone. '' The Road calls all them home.'' '' The Road calls all them home.'' These words seemed to be echoing through and through the mind of Forest as he walked down the aisle in the forest of hemlocks. At first he thought the close green foliage, so dark as to seem tarnished against the paler green of the occasional beech, a result of many young saplings rising rank about the boles of their fathers; but when he looked closer he saw that the huge and ancient trees were actually branching from their roots and nowhere else. Dead stumps of branches a hundred feet up to the crowns; and about their base, a great tangle of saplings sprouting up from the thick exposed roots. '' The Road calls all them home, as the trees all lose their shade…'' The avenue wound and curved along the flanks of the unseen mountain, wandering into secret dells of old and blooming laurels and at least four types of fern, in four different shades of green. Beams of light were flowing—not shining—flowing clear and limpid through the saturated air, condensing in a glowing dew that crusted leaf and bloom, and then wreathing clear about him, as palpable as unwet mist, a thicker sort of air. “Daslenga.” he said aloud, but he heard no sound and felt no movement of his throat. The avenue turned again, and high grey slopes of ancient rock streaked black and reddish-green with stonemoss rose up on the right, overshadowed by the drooping boughs of other pines than featherlock; great firs, and pale larches beginning to fade yellow, starred brown with cones, and here and there the reddish bark of their boles. Shade lay dark and ragged under them, casting tattered shadows on the road that lay beneath. Forest stood upon the Road. It had once been cobbled, with big red blocks of sandstone set on edge, like foot-long bricks. So much moss and washed-in sediment had accumulated on them now that only here and there, like old bones, could be seen the dull red of an exposed cobble. It was perhaps a rod wide; had been wider, perhaps, once in fargone days, as the depression in the land to either side showed, but no tree grew on it, not even a berry bush or alder. The forest around pressed on him, seemed to bear down upon him; he felt as if a tremendous power and mystery lay couchant in the earth beneath his feet and the stones on which he stood; as if something vast and terrible, like a slumbering creature of great size, lay latent before him, pent with potency if it ever awoke. It wound on dim before him, now dark under the weird trees, now alight with the drifting limpidness of the river he could never see, until the forest hid it, and his dreaming mind walked on. Back to Arheled